


the bugs and alphabet

by Pi (Rhea)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, Minor Richard Gansey III/Blue Sargent, Minor Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:12:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue & Ronan: halloween costumes, christmas presents, dances, the turning of the year.</p><p>or</p><p>In which Blue babysits Chainsaw, Ronan & Blue make angry art projects, and some conversations are almost had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bugs and alphabet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardlygolden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlygolden/gifts).



It’s Blue’s second time at the Barns. Visiting Ronan’s family home is always an adventure. Blue imagines she could spend years helping Ronan sort through the contents of the various structures that spatter the property and she still would find something unexpected, compelling, strange, and terrifying. The fact that Ronan’s father was a dreamer, a greywarren, is responsible for at least eighty percent of the strangeness, but part of Blue wonders if it also says something about who Niall Lynch was as a person, who Ronan may be becoming.

 

Ronan lobs a sheet at Blue’s head. She snatches from the air before it can hit her face.

“You could be a ghost,” he says over his shoulder. Blue folds the fabric over her forearm. The color blends and shifts so that her arm appears to end at the elbow. Her hand floats seemingly unattached with the space between rippling slightly like a heat mirage.

“Your father dreamt an invisibility blanket?” Blue asks. Ronan actually turns. One of his eyebrows climbs as he looks at Blue’s detached hand.

“I figured you could just cut eyeholes in it and wear it over your head.” Ronan says. “Disembodied eyes, no one could top that Halloween costume.”

Blue sighs. “Why am I even here?” She asks. “I don’t need a-”

“Gansey already called Adam for couples costumes, and people can’t see Noah.” Ronan glares, “that leaves you. I am not going to be an elf.”

“It’s not an elf costume.” Blue objects, again.

“If it looks like an elf and walks like an elf.” Ronan turns away. “But you’re right, ghosts would be insensitive. I’ll keep looking.” Blue sighs again and finishes folding the sheet. She sets it on top of an old trunk, one of the only things in the room that does not appear to have collected any dust. Blue idly wonders if that’s some dream property, to be eternally clean. The sheet coalesces, neatly folded and faded ivory once Blue’s fingers are no longer touching it.

“You were going for the warrior maiden thing right?” Ronan asks from deep in a refrigerator box. It’s titled precariously toward him so his torso engulfed into its depths.

“Well-” Blue doesn’t get a chance to explain. Ronan shifts something in the box and the weight tips. He jumps back out of the way as it falls, spilling with a riotous sound of metal. Blue leans down to pick up the helm that’s rolled to a stop at the toe of her boot.

“I think that’s two full sets of armor.” Ronan frowns down at the floor.

“Knights,” Blue says. “We’re going to be knights?”

Ronan grins, “How much do you want to bet Gansey’s going to have convinced Adam to be the sorcerer to his king? We’ll definitely out-do his Burger King crown and Adam’s felt magicians hat.” 

Blue turns the helm in her hands, picking out the warn filigree of climbing flowers, their ethereal vines twisting up the cheek plates and blooming delicate flowers above the eye slits. She both does and does not want to put it on. Ronan’s squatted down to separate out the detritus on the floor. It turns out they have two and a half sets of armor. Reliably Ronan picks the one with golden birds etched into the arm guards and over the chest. To Blue’s eyes its far more ornamental than practical, but there’s something of the way Chainsaw cocks her head in stance of the bird on the breastplate, and the eyes of the elongated bird flying down over the face plate, stare out with a beady certainty that makes Blue uncomfortable.

“Alright,” the words come out softer than Blue intended. She clears her throat and picks up the rest of the set matching the flower helmet. The metal is heavy, thicker than Ronan’s set. It hums a steady assurance under Blue’s fingers, like a sound to low to be heard, only felt.

“You keep that one.” Ronan says, standing, “And don’t put it on till Halloween.”

“Where am I going to keep it, it’s not like I’ve got extra space for this in my closet.”

“There’s that dressmakers bust in the tarot room.” Blue frowns before realizing Ronan means the sewing/phone/cat room. The whole house is a tarot room, really, that’s just where guests have tarot read.

“I think it’s Orla’s” Blue frowns considering.

“Good,” Ronan says. “Use that. You can set it up in your room or something.” Blue shakes her head, but she carries the pile of metal held tight in her arms, leaning back slightly to balance the weight as they leave.

 

Blue stares at Chainsaw’s cage. Chainsaw stares back.

“If I let you out of there, you promise not to destroy my trees again?” Blue asks. Chainsaw croaks pitifully at her. Blue can’t tell if that’s a _“how cruel you are to lock such a majestic creature in a cage”_ or “ _just wait till I get out of here_ ”. Blue sighs and flips the latch. Chainsaw takes a moment before hopping out of the cage with a quiet dignity Blue wouldn’t have expected. Blue’s learning quite a lot about Chainsaw’s personality.

“I can’t leave her by herself.” Ronan had said, “Noah’s not going to remember to feed her, he’s not even there all the time.”

“I’m always here,” Noah had objected, “but I probably wouldn’t remember to feed her.”

Blue stares at Chainsaw, unblinking, Chainsaw stares right back. This time, Blue isn’t the one who looks away first. Blue imagines Chainsaw is maybe a bit chagrined when she ducks her head to riffle through a pile of clean socks on Blue’s floor.

“You wanna help me sort laundry?” Blue asks.

It turns out Chainsaw does not want to help Blue sort laundry, she would like to keep Blue’s teal knee high socks, the ones with the orange frogs on them, for herself. Blue figures it’s not worth the hassle of attempting to wrest them free. She’ll steal them back later. At least Chainsaw isn’t flapping about her room intent on tearing every tree off the wall and torturing their shreds.

 

When Blue’s done with laundry she could go downstairs, but she doesn’t. She strategically planned her chores so that she doesn’t have to enter the kitchen until the evening. No one is going to see Blue passing in the hallway and ask if she wants to scrub parsnips or chop potatoes or deal with the hulking caracas of a poor dead turkey. Blue might offer to peel chestnuts –that’s the one piece of Thanksgiving dinner prep she enjoys –but once you offer one task you never escape. Besides, with Jimi and Orla and Calla in the kitchen Blue does not need to attempt to fit into the remaining sliver of space not occupied by hips or pointy elbows.

 

The phone rings. Blue jumps up.

“I got it!” she yells, hand wrapped around the doorframe of the sewing/cat room so she doesn’t have to stop her pell-mell run, slingshotting her velocity around the corner. It’s the third call this morning. The first was about the local election, the second was for Orla, but finally _third times the charm._ Blue picks up the phone.

“300 Fox Way” she swallows down her panting breath. No need to breathe hard on the phone and scare off callers.

“Blue!” Gansey’s voice is cheery. “How’s Thanksgiving?”

“I’ve been hiding in my room,” Blue admits. “How about you?”

“Well, nobodies destroyed anything.” Gansey says. Blue tucks her smile into the fluffy cowl of her sweater. Gansey’s bar for Ronan and Adam staying with his parents is not set high.

“We’re not cooking.” Gansey continues, “My parents always have Thanksgiving catered. No such thing as a small family holiday.” Blue hums sympathy at the slightly bitter tone.

“We never have a small family anything,” she offers, “but there are more than enough cooks in the kitchen to feed our whole neighborhood I’m sure, so covering everyone in the house is probably fine.”

“What are they making?” Gansey asks.

“I haven’t been down there, but I’m beginning to smell the turkey. If past years hold true we’ve got some honey glazed carrots, roast turnips, parsnips, and rutabagas, I’m sure someone’s frying okra, Jimi always does succotash, but with edamame instead of lima beans, green bean casserole, apricot cranberry relish, sweet potatoes with marshmallows. Mom’s taken on Persephone’s pies this year.” Blue swallows. “Mom does a decent pumpkin pie, I guess we’ll find out how good she is with pecans.” There’s a fallow pause while the both think about Persphone.

“That sounds truly delicious.” Gansey offers.

“Yeah.” Blue agrees. She dabs at her eyes with a sweater sleeve. Her mom’s home, life is basically back to normal, or as normal as it could ever be without Persphone’s PhD music or the cloud of blonde hair tickling the edge of Blue’s vision in the living room when Jimi watches her soap operas, or when someone asks her mother and Calla for a joint reading.

“So how did the school visits go?” Blue asks. She winds the cat-chewed phone cord around and around her finger.

“Ronan sarcastically hated all of them, Adam spent the whole time trying not to yell at him.” Gansey’s sigh is gusty down the phone line. “Of course my mother was very fond of Hardvard or Yale.”

“Was there anywhere you liked?”

“Yale was alright. I don’t know. I think I’ve got mom to come around on looking at smaller, non Ivy schools. I don’t really want to go to a big school, and there’s this place in the Midwest with an amazing archeology program.” Gansey’s voice has gone wistful. It’s the kind of wistful that suits a high school student, full of the world and promise. “Anyways, Adam made massive pros and cons lists, but is saving his judgment until after we visit Stanford this spring. Ronan says he’d rather go to UVA, and be able to drive home every weekend.”

“That sounds like you all want something different.” Blue summarizes.

“Probably.” Gansey’s voice isn’t cheerful anymore.

“Did you know Persephone went to UVA? Calla says it might not be a reach if I get my grades up. She says to apply, see if I can get in on legacy. Apply for scholarships. They have abroad programs you know.” Blue isn’t sure if she sounds hopeful or already defeated. “Which is why I’m spending Thanksgiving break studying with Chainsaw.”

“No, that’s good!” Gansey says, perking up. “You take the SAT this weekend? Are you feeling prepared?”

“I am actually,” Blue laughs, her chest feeling lighter. “Hasn’t Ronan told you? We’ve been studying together.”

“Ronan?!” Gansey bursts out.

“I told him I’d sign up to take it again if he would. They say you do better the second time. It’s like a bad spellers club, mutually assured destruction if we both don’t get our grades up.”

“I thought he was studying with Adam.” Blue smiles at Gansey’s confusion.

“He probably is. I’ve definitely been using Adam’s SAT word study cards. It certainly isn’t Ronan’s handwriting. But I can’t stay up that late to join their study party. Unlike some people I want eight hours of sleep.”

“You may be the only one.” Gansey agrees. “You kind of make me want to take it again.”

Blue scoffs, “With scores like yours or Adam’s, you really don’t need to bother.” Gansey demurs and Blue lets him change the subject. It’s like prodding a sore tooth, a future fantasy that hurts with a many-layered loss, but she still smiles and encourages Gansey to say more about archeology program that’s caught his eye.

 

“Are you free on Saturday?” Blue asks. Ronan eyes her suspiciously.

“Why?”

“Don’t tell Gansey,” Blue demands. Ronan crosses his arms belligerently. Blue huffs.

“Christmas presents,” she hisses, like Gansey might leap out from around the corner. Ronan’s smile curls wickedly.

“I’m free Saturday,” he says.

“Good, you’re driving.”

 

Blue derives sufficient glee from Ronan’s scowls when she refuses to tell him where they’re going. He still follows her directions without too much verbal complaint.

“So do you know what you’ll be getting them for Christmas?” Blue asks, when they have a stretch of 50 miles of highway in front of them.

“Maybe.” Ronan’s hesitancy is uncharacteristic. Blue turns from the trees blurring past the window to study his face. “What can a man who can get anything give a man who wants nothing?” Ronan shrugs, “or a man who wants everything but refuses to accept anything given.”

“That doesn’t sound like a Christmas parable.”

“I’ll probably give Gansey a Murder Squash shirt. Did you know the concert tour shirts sell for 200$ on eBay?” Ronan flashes his teeth. Blue shakes her head.

 

Blue sometimes wonders if there isn’t a subtle magic in the 300 Fox Way doorbell. The two sharp rings that pulled her from her room sounded angry. Blue checks the peephole. Ronan’s face is cast in hard shadows beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. His breath puffs steam on her front porch. Blue unlocks the door. Ronan doesn’t say anything before shoving inside. Cold air swirls in with him, only a few days left in December and the New Year promises to be frigid. Blue closes and re-locks the door while Ronan blows on his hands.

“Who is it?” Calla’s voice booms down the stairs.

“The Snake!” Ronan snarls.

“You can use the craft room!” Calla yells back.

 

Persephone once lived in the craft room. At first no one had wanted to change it, but there’s so little space in 300 Fox Way as it is, no room can lay fallow for long. The explosion of mud streaks from Calla’s clay cover a new table and Jimi’s beading supplies have slowly encroached from the other end of the room. Blue had never known her mother to knit, but from somewhere in the house skeins of yarn emerged to fill a large set of plastic drawers taken from a yardsale, and Maura had begun to re-teach herself the art of the sock.

“Did you know Persephone had chain mail supplies…” Calla trails off, her eyes running over Ronan. “No better large scale work for that, you can get to the details later. Wreck this” She hauls a hefty green tub off a low shelf and drops it almost on Ronan’s toes. “Make something.” Calla commands. He doesn’t flinch back from her, or move until she leaves.

 

The tub is partly filled with coils of thick metal wire in almost-black shades of green and red. The rest of the tub is black scrap metal.

“I’ll leave the metal bending to you.” Blue says. She pulls out her shears and the shirts she’s planning to modify. Ronan nods, hauling out a length of wire squeezing the wire cutter with clear effort before snapping off his selected amount. There’s a soft grunt as he starts to bend and twist the wire, whole body contorting to leverage the metal. Blue looks back down at her work.

 

Slowly Ronan works himself through his anger. First his breathing grows harsh, Blue doesn’t jump when the metal slams down against the edge of the table, Ronan forcing it into a new angle, a new shape. He doesn’t speak as he works, devoted to his singular focus of wrenching Calla’s box of wire and scraps. When the silences lengthen and Ronan falls still, Blue looks up again. He’s looking down at his bristling nest of wire rising up from the floor. This is the point Blue thinks she should say “if you wan to talk…” but she doesn’t. Instead she eyes the shelf filled with dye from the cousins’ summer tie-dying double birthday party and barbecue.

“Do you care about your clothes?” Blue asks. Ronan looks down at the stretched neck of his black t-shirt, his sweatshirt abandoned on the floor in the corner. He hauls the shirt over his head. Blue nods and strips off her own shirt. She’s already wearing a painting bra from helping Maura with the ceiling in the den the summer before last. It had been too hot to wear long sleeves and easier to just soak off any paint drips a cool bath tub afterward.  Her pants are already speckled with multicolored paint and dye splotches. Blue hangs the white dress over the mannequin.

“I can’t believe you have two of those things in your house.” Ronan says conversationally. “One was freaky enough.”

“Well no thanks to you, the other now lives in my room.” Ronan gives an exaggerated shudder. Blue hands him the bottle of purple dye.

“Try not to soak it, I think we should work with three colors, Jackson Pollock style.”

“Why do you expect me to know about modern art?” Ronan grunts. Blue smiles at him and flings some teal at the dress.

 

The drop cloth beneath them is liberally awash in purple, teal and blue when they’re done, and the dress a chaotic waterfall of color. Blue is well satisfied with their creation. She turns to give Ronan a high five. He claps her on the shoulder instead, because he’s a dick. Blue is sure his hand placed just so the purple edge of his thumb will be poking out over the neck of her shirts for the next few days. She grins back at him and shoves him on the chest in retaliation. Ronan walks around shirtless more often than she does. He’ll have fun explaining her bright teal handprint back at Monmouth. Blue snickers. Calla stops in the doorway before the impending color war can develop further.

“Before you destroy the house, I could use a hand in the kitchen.” She eyes Ronan, “You’re staying for dinner?”

He shakes his head. “I have apologies to make.” He says.

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” Calla says, “Nobody appreciates platitudes.” Ronan sneers at her, but she’s already leaving. Blue smiles at the way Ronan’s expression softens when he turns back to her. It’s only the slightest change from his usual expression, but Blue’s learned him well enough by now to see it.

“You can come back any time.” Blue offers and she means it. He punches her in the shoulder as he leaves the room.

“You’re not bad yourself, Maggot.” He calls back, sound muffled from inside the sweatshirt he’s pulling back on, clattering down the stairs half blind but still familiar enough to hit each step, even the two that are just slightly taller than all the rest. Blue looks back at the dress, at the warped metal sculpture. She realizes that it’s a rose bush, blooming sharp and black.

 

Blue spends New Years getting drunk at Monmouth. The plan was to drive to Cabeswater. The city of Henrietta is having their own Fireworks show, and there will be cars lining the entire street down to the baseball field tonight.

“Cabeswater would be warm.” Gansey’d said, but somehow they haven’t left yet. Blue passes the bottle over to Noah. She’s not sure if he’s actually drinking, or just pretending to drink for camaraderie’s sake. Adam isn’t drinking, but Blue’s head is beginning to feel swimmy. She hasn’t had much, but the alcohol is cut only by the six popcorn balls she’s already eaten. Gansey is definitely tipsy, listing hard to the left and slowly in the process of sliding off the couch. Ronan is probably drunk, Blue decides. It would explain the singing. He’s got a nice voice. Blue knew that, she’s heard him hum keeping time with his reels, but she’s never heard him fully sing before. The accent is nice, like his singing is a different Ronan, a younger Ronan reflecting the sounds he was raised on, that hereditary history of Ireland coming out in the bell tones of his words. Blue hums along a little, but her voice isn’t nearly as good.

“We should have gone to Cabeswater before we opened the bottles.” Gansey points out. Only his head and shoulders are still on the couch, he wriggles but doesn’t manage to slide the right direction, whichever that is. Noah shifts out of his way, perching up on the back of the couch and Gansey winds up butting his head into Blue’s lap.

“I’m still sober, I could drive.” Adam offers.

Gansey raises a declarative finger. “Let’s go, or we’ll miss the fireworks!”

“We won’t be able to see them from there.” Blue points out sensibly.

“It’s Cabeswater.” Gansey shrugs, he turns his face into Blue’s thigh slightly and the words are muffled against the denim of her jeans. He has a point though.

“Who wants to party on New Years with their mom.” Ronan grouses but he comes along willingly enough. For someone who’s downed as much alcohol as he has, enough to be singing, he walks a very straight and confident line. Gansey smiles sloppily at Blue. It’s the kind of wide-open expression that makes Blue’s chest compress. Gansey can’t look at her that way, but he does, and Blue knows she’s looking back.

 

“God, we’re like some lonely hearts club.” Blue dislikes the distinct whine her voice has taken on.

“This is not alcoholic enough for you to be saying that.” Ronan glares. He takes another vicious swig of his flat ginger ale.

“Well, mom’s out and so’s Calla. I could probably sneak into the liquor cabinet if you want to rectify that.”

“Are you actually offering me alcohol?” Ronan asks, and Noah snickers.

“Maybe it’d help me stop worrying.” Blue mutters. “I don’t like not being there.” Blue huffs out a breath and kicks the Monmouth stairs. Noah’s shoulder brushes against hers in sympathy. None of them felt able to go back up into Monmouth, like if they keep waiting on the stairs maybe Adam and Gansey will come back.

“Adam said we wouldn’t be able to come with them,” Ronan growls. “I not going to be worried. They have till tomorrow night.”

Blue coughs a wet laugh, “You got a hot date?”

“No,” Ronan scoffs, “I’m taking Noah.”

Noah pouts. “I thought I was going with Blue.”

“You’re a ghost, you can’t get Blue an extra ticket to the dance.” Ronan points out.

“I'm still surprised Aglionby has a Valentines Day dance.” Blue says. There’s a hangnail on her thumb. It gets more painful every time she picks at it.

“Which is why every student has a free second ticket. So, are you getting me alcohol or not.”

“I can’t come with you.” Noah points out, drifting slightly in place on the stairs.

“We’ll be back.” Blue jumps down the remaining steps, Ronan on her heels. Blue takes the passenger seat, ignoring Adam’s untouched soda in the cup holder. He saved it, he said they wouldn’t be able to come, but he knew that he and Gansey would be back.

“Can I see your phone?” Blue asks. Ronan doesn’t her why, and passes it back over. It’s the third time Blue’s checked. The weather still predicts a clear evening, cold enough for scarves and hats. If there was any precipitation, it would become snow. There are darker clouds and the little cartoon raindrop hovering further down the week. Not today, not tonight, not tomorrow. Blue hands the phone back.

“Where’s your mom?” Ronan asks as he pulls the car up in front of 300 Fox Way.

“On a date.” Blue shrugs at Ronan’s look. “They thought it would be too serious to go out on Valentines Day or something, so they’re going out tonight instead.”

“Is Calla on a date?” Ronan asks.

“Maybe.” Blue jiggles her key in the lock. The second lock on the door turns to the left to open rather than the right, counter to the other two locks. Calla installed one of the locks herself. Blue always thought the original two locks were more than enough. When Blue asked, Calla’d said “Good things come in threes” by way of explanation. Bad things also come in threes, but Blue hadn’t mentioned that.

Even with music wafting down from floors above and the creak and hum of a house in use, it feels too quiet. Blue sneaks through the kitchen to the pantry. Ronan is surprisingly soundless behind her.

 

When they arrive back at Monmouth, Blue has a jug of honey mead. It’s from a batch of Persephone’s, one of the ones tucked into the back corner of the cupboards under the stairs in the pantry, dusty and forgotten with cobwebs. Ronan breaks the seal on the bottle and takes the first swig. He holds it out appraisingly.

“That’s a strong girly drink you got there, Maggot.” Blue kicks him and steals the bottle back before sitting one step above him. She fends off Noah when he appears and tries to steal the bottle. “You’re dead, you don’t need any.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not worried about Gansey and Adam.” Blue passes the jug over. Blue drinks a little. Ronan drinks more, but the jug is still heavy in her hand when he returns it. Blue leans back against Monmouth’s wall waiting for the stinging in her eyes to clear. Ronan’s shoulder leans into her arm.

“How can you ever be ready to let someone go?” Blue asks, wrapping her arms around herself. She’s not sure if she’s talking about college, or death, or the sharp metal gleam of Glendower’s crown looming ever closer to them.

“You don’t,” Ronan spits, “you just loose people, that’s how it works right.” He sounds angry, Blue thinks. Blue has never known what to do with Ronan’s anger. Not like Gansey’s anger at Adam’s lies, righteous and worried, or Adam’s anger at the world and himself, explosive and inward turned. Ronan’s anger is a learned talent, a lens through which the world doesn’t hurt quite so badly. Unlike Gansey and Adam, Blue thinks she can understand Ronan. She could be Ronan. The thought scares her. 

Blue picks Ronan’s hand up off his knee. He doesn’t take it back. Their fingers tangle together, he doesn’t say _Adam_ and she doesn’t say _Gansey_. Blue imagines their worry tangling together like their fingers, a rope winding out into the twilight connecting them through the closed door in the tree, the one Adam and Gansey could walk through that she and Ronan couldn’t. It was probably worse for Ronan, the trees had always helped him before. Blue doesn’t have any agreements with trees, but she tugs on the rope, a syncopated rhythm: _Come back, come home._

 

It’s Aglionby’s midwinter break and the cold wet March weather has crept over everything. Gansey and Adam have gone to the West coast for one final college tour, making decisions. Blue clocks each day it rains and insanely considers burning every one of Gansey’s Aglionby sweaters. She’s counting days now, not months. She still has school and work, and Adam and Gansey are across the country. There’s nothing she could do, if it was today. She comes out from the kitchen to deliver another order and Ronan is sitting in a booth by the window, alone. She drops off the pizza to the pair of giggling girls who are staring at the exposed spikes of Ronan’s tattoo curling darkly up his neck and over his shoulders. Blue hitches one hip onto his table.

“How can you wear tank tops in this weather?” She asks. Ronan takes a moment before looking away from the window. He rolls one shoulder, shrugging off the question or offering an answer.

“Small cheese pizza.” He says.

“A small, just for you?”

He looks pointedly at the empty side of the booth. “Right.” Blue doesn’t write it down on her notepad. She slides onto the opposite seat.

“I heard from UVA,” she says. Ronan’s eyes are somewhere on her cheek, just off from meeting her gaze. “I got in.”

Ronan nods slowly. “Me too.”

“Do you think Adam’s really going to go to Stanford?”

“He got in.” Ronan’s voice is flat. Gansey’d texted Ronan a picture of him and Adam on the Stanford campus, smiling, looking like college students. Adam had on a Stanford sweatshirt.

“But Gansey hasn’t said anything, has he?” Blue frowns. Her lips are dry but she forgot to bring chapstick in her bag. She tries not to bite at them.

“You’re working, right? Don’t you have to get back there?” Ronan jerks his head toward the kitchen.

“You don’t have to be an asshole. You do know _that,_ right?” Blue doesn’t look back as she stalks off to the kitchen.

 

She takes orders from two more tables and brings the check to the giggling girls. They don’t stop by Ronan’s table as they leave. Blue’s a little surprised he’s still there, but with Gansey and Adam gone she supposes there isn’t anywhere else for him to go. The Barns are empty, Niall Lynch’s dream things released from their purgatory, transmuted through Adam and Ronan’s combined magic to be real. Too real, with nobody to feed them, or shovel out manure. Before Ronan never would have wanted for money and now he’s come into a second inheritance. Blue hasn’t asked if Ronan and Adam have been to see Aurora Lynch. Maybe that’s the reason they’re not talking.

 

Blue sits down but she doesn’t let go of Ronan’s pizza.

Ronan lifts a piece off and doesn’t bother with a plate. Blue takes her own slice.

“You can't just steal a customers food.” Ronan grumbles. Blue smirks around her mouthful of cheese and oregano.

“I’m off the clock now. I’m eating pizza with a friend, we just happen to be at my place of work.”

“I thought you hated pizza.” Ronan snatches up another slice.

“There’s way too much here for one person. A Nino’s small was never made for just one mouth to eat.” Blue doesn’t let Ronan goad her into taking another slice. She still busses their table and takes Ronan’s money, but he waits while she grabs her bag from the back room.

 

It’s drizzling out. Ronan walked to Nino’s and he doesn’t have a coat. Blue stuffs her hands in her pockets and tries not to feel sorry for him. The seat of her bicycle is beaded with rain. She wraps her fingers around the cold tang of the handlebars. She’s not quite sure where they’re walking too, but after a few moments of Ronan’s steady pace eating up the sidewalk he says.

“I can’t believe he’s actually thinking of leaving the ley line.” Blue hears “ _he can’t just leave me”_.

“It’s fixed isn’t it? I mean, there’s nothing more it needs him to do. Whatever you did with the sleeping cows, that released the energy back into the ley line when they became real.” Ronan’s shoulders are hunched around his ears, like he’s trying to shrink down to her size to hide from the rain.

“It will never be truly fixed.” Ronan says.

“Because of your mom?”

“No, because things always break down. How do you think the line got this way? There are always Magicians, just like there are always Greywarrens. Even if this line was more broken, trying to hide Glendower, something always needs fixing.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t go to college.” Blue’s voice is quiet, raindrops stealing her words. Water is circumventing her eyebrows and stealing down her cheeks. “Where are we going?” Blue tries not to shiver, she’s feeling thoroughly wet now. Walking with Ronan until he’s no longer angry seems like a really poor plan.

“Monmouth.” Ronan says and takes a sharp left across the street. “And I didn’t say he couldn’t go to college. I know there isn’t anything here for him.” Ronan gestures expansively to the grey damp of Henrietta around them. “But that doesn’t mean he can just run away.”

“What is he running away from?” Blue asks because she can think of too many answers, his father, poverty, a place where people know him, Ronan, Gansey’s death though they all don’t know it yet, maybe even Blue herself. Ronan sighs.

“He’s not running away. I just wish he was. You can’t run away from things that don’t matter.”

“I think you matter.”

Ronan laughs. It’s a true bright sound, startling against Blue’s goose pimpled skin.

“Thanks.” Ronan says, genuine.

“I think you should talk to him.” Blue bumps her hip against Ronan. “And Gansey. We’re going to finish this adventure together.”

“But when we find Glendower.” Ronan says. Blue likes how Ronan says ‘when’. With each passing day the urgency of their mission presses harder on Blue, it isn’t an ‘if’, but Blue is still unsure that the ‘when’ will be soon enough. Blue waits for him to finish his thought. Instead, Ronan bumps her hip back and Blue falls off the sidewalk in a tangled clatter with her bicycle. It’s a good thing they’re not far from Monmouth. Blue limps the rest of the way there quickly, leaning on Ronan for support as the blood drools down her leg, mixing with rain and turning her torn pants black.

 

Blue calls her mom to say she’s staying over at Monmouth. Maura knows Adam and Gansey are out, she knows Ronan.

“Don’t burn the place down.” She orders before hanging up the phone.

“Your mom lets you sleep over with boys?” Ronan asks. Blue rolls her eyes.

“My mom lets me sleep over with _you._ I bet she thinks we’ll be staying up all night talking about our mutual interest in Gansey, or Adam.”

“Really?”

“It’s not like I talk about romance with her, that’d be awkward. Apparently she, Calla, and Persephone had a betting pool about Adam.”

“What?” Ronan asks flatly.

“I don’t know exactly what they were betting on, but definitely one of the options was if Adam and Gansey were dating.”

“I don’t believe you.” Ronan says, but Blue can tell he does. Blue pulls the extra quilt off the couch and sits on one end of Gansey’s bed. Ronan occupies the other.

 

“So, you and Gansey.” He says.

“What?”

“Well, let’s not disappoint your mother.” Blue stares at Ronan but there’s nothing joking about his demeanor.

“Gansey?” Blue asks. Her fingers wrap and wrap around a loose thread of the Aglionby crew shirt Ronan offered in exchange for her wet clothes. The rain hums around them, vibrating off the roof and cutting off any sound from beyond the pools of light from Gansey’s lamp and the bare bulb dangling in the kitchen. Blue licks her lips and tastes salt. Without rain to hide behind there’s no way to obscure tears. Blue still hasn’t told anyone. Only the women of 300 Fox Way share the secret of Gansey’s death.

“Blue?” Ronan asks. His voice is the gentlest Blue has ever heard it, except perhaps a few times she shouldn’t have been near enough to hear him murmuring to Adam. She shakes her head. Slowly, Ronan turns his hand over on the bed, offering palm out to her. Blue doesn’t take his hand, but she does scoot down the bed to tuck her head against Ronan’s shoulder. He’s tall enough she doesn’t even have to slouch to do it. She feels Ronan’s sigh against her hair. He probably thinks she’s upset because Gansey’s looking at Stanford and Blue is going to UVA. There are mere weeks left for filling out acceptances, filing paperwork, choosing college sweatshirts and getting information about required freshman courses. Blue and Gansey still haven’t talked about the space between them, whatever compels them into one another’s orbits. The way Gansey looks at her sometimes, Blue wonders if her lips are magnetic. She could start wearing one of those surgical masks all the time, one more layer of protection.  She sniffles and shifts her head so she doesn’t accidentally wipe her nose on Ronan’s shoulder.

 

Taking a shaky breath she asks, “What about Adam?” Ronan shifts, shaking out the arm that’s been supporting both their weights. He falls back against the bed. Blue stays sitting for a moment. Ronan doesn’t meet her eyes, his gaze beyond the darkened skylights. Blue folds herself down next to him. It’s a surprise when Ronan starts to answer.

“Adam doesn’t need me, he needs to be away from Henrietta, and he needs proof that the world really is out there, waiting for him. He’s going to leave and I can’t go with him.” Ronan rolls one shoulder again. It bumps against Blue cheek. “The Barns are here, Mom’s here, Cabeswater is here.”

“But he cares.” Ronan turns to look at Blue. “He does,” Blue says firmer. “It’s not that he didn’t like me, but we didn’t work. Adam likes you, and you two, you _do_ work. Even if Adam leaves, he’s not trying leaving you behind.” When Ronan doesn’t respond Blue pokes his side. “I don’t care if he doesn’t want to say it or you don’t want to ask. You need to hear it. You need to talk to him.”

“Like you need to talk to Gansey?”

“That’s different.” Blue objects. Ronan raises an eyebrow.

“Look at us, Maggot, your mother was right.” Blue stifles her laugh into Gansey’s bedsheets. The hiccup in her laughter boarders the edges of her tears, but Ronan’s lips have found a smile.

“You know what we should do?”

“What?”

Ronan sits up. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

They dash through the rain into the BMW. Blue’s skinned knees protest when she tries to curl her legs up onto the seat. Ronan cranks up the music and doesn’t say where they’re going. The highway is a blurred haze or rain that slowly recedes as they drive North. Blue doesn’t bother to shout over the music and ask their destination. The evening has taken on a sort of surreal quality. Blue thinks about reusing time and cyclical moments, wonders when she’ll be here again.

 

The car stops, but Blue doesn’t open her eyes until Ronan opens her door.

“Come on.” He says again. Blue hops down from the car and looks around them. It’s only drizzling, streetlights gleaming off beaded car windows and wet pavement. Blue follows Ronan across the church parking lot. He feeds money into the metal box listing numbered parking spaces. They wind past quiet office buildings and the warm glow and noise from local restaurants. Ronan turns down an alley, brickwork leaning in from either side. The door is marked but Blue doesn’t take time to read the faded sign, slipping in behind Ronan before the heavy weight of the metal fire door can close on her. Down the flight of stairs, painted black like the walls, Ronan doesn’t bother to stop at the brightly lit coat check, but the woman behind the half door waves at him. At the bottom of the stairs a sharp left takes them from concrete back to brickwork walls. The air is hazy and smells like fog machine dust. A woman with a black shirt showing off her muscled arms bends her bright blond head to check the IDs Ronan holds out. Her eyes flick to Blue and back to the piece of plastic. She nods and Blue takes the ID without comment when Ronan passes it back to her.

 

Beyond the door is a short hall; a riot of drums rushes them along. They spill out onto a dance floor, colored lights flash over them and fog machine smoke puffs through the air, buffeted by thrashing arms and heads. The dance floor has enough room for flying elbows and knees and many of the dancers are taking advantage of the space. Ronan is already bouncing a little to the beat. Blue follows him out into the crowd. The music is vigorous and frustrated and when Ronan stops worming his way forward and turns instead to throwing himself around with the rest of the crowd, Blue finds herself caught up in it too. It isn’t dancing like at her high school dances, grinding hiphop bass lines and billboard top 20, or like at Aglionby with drippy slow songs and radio edit pop music. Best of all, no one is paying attention here. When Blue looks around, no one is looking back, not even Ronan. Everyone is dancing by themselves in the crowd.

 

With no one watching, Blue can start moving. Someone knocks into Blue’s side and mutters a quick sorry when she stumbles. Blue shakes her head, but they’ve already turned away. She raises her arms to jump and flail with the rest of them. She hikes up her knees and rolls her wrists, she bounces her head and toes to the beat. She sings along to some of the songs she’s heard in Ronan’s car. She spins. The room whirls around her, colors and fog, and Ronan always touching the edges of her vision. When he slams into her a few songs later, his grin is as bright and fierce as her own. Blue wipes the back of her hand over her sweaty forehead. Ronan mimes drinking and points off the dance floor. The far side of the dance floor tapers off into bench seating, wooden tables, and a bar.

“Two waters.” Ronan yells, passing over crumpled bills. He hands one glass to Blue.

“Thank you!” She yells back. He nods, not bothering to answer over the music. Blue’s throat is starting to feel raw, from singing along, or the fog machine, she’s not sure. Ronan passes her empty glass back to the bartender.

 

Dancing becomes like dreaming. Time slips away at the edges, Blue doesn’t think about how she’s going to move she simply is the movement. Sometimes Ronan is there, and sometimes she can’t see him. Blue is beyond tired, she hasn’t checked a clock and her whole body is ringing with the noise loud so that it strikes her lungs like a drum. But she doesn’t want to stop moving, she can’t. Her feet have forgotten to be tired. Blue is aware that the moment she walks off the dance floor her steps will stumble, the pain she’s holding at bay will creep under the arches of her feet, sting against the sweat sticking her borrowed sweatpants to her scabbing knees. It’s only here that time is suspended by sound. Ronan bumps into her again. He leans down to speak into her ear.

“One more song.” It’s not a question but Blue shakes her head. No, she doesn’t want to leave. Ronan hip checks her and her elbow finds someone else’s side. She doesn’t get to say sorry because they’re pushing back, not meanly but with force. The song screams around her and someone ricochets into Ronan like a pinball. He absorbs the energy, passing it on to Blue. Buffeted, Blue buffets back and doesn’t listen for the end of the song.

 

When Blue reluctantly trails Ronan off the dance floor she does stumble. He catches her arm. They stand just beyond the door in the cool rush of air from the stairs.

“Come on.” Ronan says. It feels like an immense task to climb the stairs. Each of Blue’s legs are weighed down, pulled back towards the music. The fire door closing behind them is like cutting an umbilical cord. Blue breathes in the crisp night air. It’s so sharp and clean after the muddled fog and sweat. The rain has stopped entirely.

“Thanks.” Blue says when they reach Ronan’s car. “I feel better” and she does. She leans her head back against the headrest. She could fall asleep, each limb merging into the expensive leather of Ronan’s car.

“It’s more fun when you’re not alone.” Ronan says.

“Really?” Blue can’t imagine it made a difference that she was here, one more person dancing by herself in the crowd. But then she remembers Ronan spinning around, her, there and gone and there again like an anchor for the feeling of being lost in time. That sense of safety, of comfort, has mixed in with the high of the energy and music now mellowed to a comfortable glow.

“We’re friends?” Blue shakes her head and corrects, “Are we friends?” The silence stretches around Ronan but Blue doesn’t feel anxious about it. “Yeah, we’re too creepy crawly and ground bound not to get along.”

“What?” Ronan asks.

“Maggot,” Blue points to herself, “Snake.” She points to Ronan. Ronan barks a laugh.

“You may have something there.” he flicks the stereo on, but Blue doesn’t have any more questions. The car radio reads out 1:58 am in boxy green numbers. Blue closes her eyes.

“Wake me up when we get there.” She says.


End file.
